


The Outcast's Exile

by A_MX



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: (implied) - Freeform, (mostly), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Book 3: The Titan's Curse (Percy Jackson), Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt Nico di Angelo, Minor Character Death, Nico Feels, Nico's POV, Older Nico di Angelo, One-Sided Nico di Angelo/Percy Jackson, amount of chapters subject to change, i made him 12 instead of 10
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21639001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_MX/pseuds/A_MX
Summary: ‘Anyway, the first few months I knew him, I thought Grover Underwood was a weirdo. Of course, by now, I know better, but at the time, I didn’t, and here’s a good example to show you why…’A narration of the events before, during, and shortly after The Titan's Curse from the perspective of Nico di Angelo.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 19





	1. My Sister’s Classmate Really Loves Enchiladas

**Author's Note:**

> Who has two thumbs and keeps beginning new fics despite having unfinished projects awaiting completing? It is I!
> 
> So, I've been wanting to write something like this for a while now, and the other day, during a conversation with a fellow member of the Protect Nico Di Angelo At All Costs Squad (that's not actually a thing), I decided, screw it, go for it. I have a rough idea of what to write, much of the plot is already decided on because it follows The Titan's Curse, I have a list of chapters (amount and titles subject to change), so here we go. Trying to shoot for around 2k words per chapter.
> 
> I'm keeping this as close to canon as I can, however, I have made one big change, and that is upping Nico's age by two years. I always thought he behaved too mature and grown-up for his age in canon, particularly with the whole having a crush on Percy thing, as well as his responsible behaviour etc, so for the sake of this fic, he is twelve, not ten. I cobbled together a timeline spreadsheet, to the best of my abilities (cough cough Rick has a lot of plot holes) to help me keep track of it all.
> 
> A word of warning: it is first person. Before you close the tab, I promise it's not as cringy as we all have come to expect from first person fics. But since this is set during the Percy Jackson series, I figured it would be a good way to keep it as close to the narrative tone of the original books as possible.
> 
> Content warnings for each chapter will be in the beginning A/N. There is no update schedule, chapters will happen when they happen, and I'll try to always write ahead a bit for some headroom. It's not exactly beta-read, but a friend of mine, who has to endure me ranting about nerd stuff at 3 in the morning, is probably going to whack me over the head if they notice any enormous plot holes in the stuff I send them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has content warnings for **food**.

> _Westover Hall looked like an evil knight's castle. It was all black stone, with towers and slit windows and a big set of wooden doors. It stood on a snowy cliff overlooking this big frosty forest on one side and the grey churning ocean on the other._
> 
> — _Percy Jackson and the Titan's Curse_

### (I) My Sister’s Classmate Really Loves Enchiladas

I think every class has to have at least one guy who is a weirdo. It’s got to be law of nature or something. In my own class, that was always me, I guess—I remember vividly all the times classmates made fun of me during lunch break for bringing my Mythomagic deck, well screw them—and around the time this story begins, in my sister’s year, it was a guy named Grover Underwood.

At first, I thought there was something wrong with his legs. He walked like he’d had his ankle broken a few times, and once, Bianca mentioned he never had to attend PE because he had a note from his doctor saying he couldn’t exercise, ever. I had never seen him use crutches, though, but I’m not a doctor. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to use crutches, I guessed. It wasn’t like I was on speaking terms with him, and the few times I asked Bianca about him, she just shrugged and said that he didn’t talk much about himself.

Anyway, the first few months I knew him, I thought Grover Underwood was a weirdo. Of course, by now, I know better, but at the time, I didn’t, and here’s a good example to show you why…

Δ

Bianca and I were sitting in the cafeteria. Westover Hall’s food was pretty shitty, overall, but spending lunch breaks in the cafeteria was preferable over going to the library where all the nerds were hanging out. For one, bad food was still better than no food at all, and two, the librarian was scary. Westover may have been a military school, but most of the teachers were civilians. Mr Carmichael, however, had been in the army, and he never missed an opportunity to remind people of it.

So the cafeteria it was where we spent most of our breaks. We didn’t get to see each other a lot the rest of the time, what with her being in a different class and the dorms being separated between boys and girls. The meals were our sibling quality time, and they were sacred. But that day, I kept getting distracted.

Halfway across the room sat a young man, munching away at his lunch, and not-so-subtly observing us. He had curly hair, sported a goatee, and wore a baseball cap in addition to the usual school uniform. His name, I knew, was Grover, and despite having the appearance of a young man in his late teens, he was in my sister’s class. Looking back, I should have wondered, but at the time, I just assumed he’d been held back a few times.

The food wasn’t all that impressive—mashed potatoes that were barely deserving of the name, and a nondescript sauce that made you want to not know what was in it—yet Grover appeared very focused on eating it. But whenever he thought Bianca and I were looking the other way, he would glance over, and when I’d notice out of the corner of my eye and turn around, his head would whip back down to stare at his plate as if he hoped to find the answer to all of life’s mysteries between the potatoes.

What a weirdo.

‘Nico?’ Bianca snapped her fingers in front of my face, and I realised I’d zoned out for a few moments. ‘Were you even listening?’

I nodded and nervously twisted one of the figurines in my pocket between my fingers while reaching for the spoon, all the while trying to keep an eye on this Grover boy. Which, unsurprisingly, didn’t work out and ended with me stabbing myself in the face with a spoonful of mashed potatoes. I cursed as the sauce ran down my face, over my uniform and into my collar.

‘Nico!’, Bianca chided. ‘ _Fratellino_ , what are you doing?’

I knew she was more concerned than upset. She rarely ever got angry, especially at me, and in general was the best and most calm person I knew. She picked up a napkin and wiped the mess off my face and did her best to soak up most of it before it could spoil my clothes further.

‘ _Grazie_ ’, I mumbled. My face burnt hot red. It was embarrassing enough to spill my food like that, but having your sister clean your face like you’re a baby, in front of your classmates? For a twelve-year-old, that’s basically a public execution. Not that I had much reputation left to lose, after all, I was ‘the weird kid who plays with toys’. It’s called _Mythomagic_ and it’s not a toy! It’s a figurine of Athena, and she has 3000 attack points!

Just then, the bell rang, and drowned out whatever Bianca had been about to say. As if the day hadn’t been bad enough, just when I was about to head for the classroom, I happened to stumble upon a teacher. Ms Burgh, of all people. _Merda_.

‘Mr di Angelo! Do you think that it is in any way an acceptable to run around like that?’

‘No’, I forced out between clenched teeth. A few boys who watched laughed.

‘That’s “no _ma’am_ ”, young man.’

‘Yes ma’am. I mean, no ma’am.’

‘Who’s your homeroom teacher?’

The bystanders were howling with laughter by now.

‘Mr Thorn, ma’am.’

She ripped a page out of her notebook and scribbled a note on it which she then handed to me. ‘You will give this to _Doctor_ Thorn from me. Dismissed.’

As I hurried through the building towards my class, I peeked into the note Burgh had given me. As I had expected, she recommended _dear_ _Severin_ to give me detention, for _unruly appearance and talking back_.

Of course, I thought, later, as I was working my back off in the laundry room, hauling baskets full of other students’ dirty uniforms around. An afternoon that started with spilling gravy down my shirt just _had_ to be a complete hell. Why not some penal labour, for good measure.

And all because of that weirdo Grover Underwood.

Δ

‘…and I expect all of you to have read and summarised the excerpt by next week. Now, shall we call it a day? Have a nice evening, everyone, and see you on Monday.’

Mr Grimes, despite his name, was one of the few teachers I actually liked. While his subject, Military History, was certainly far from being my favourite, the man himself was more than bearable. His teaching was mildly interesting at best, but his tendency to frequently refer to the Ancient Greeks for examples or anecdotes naturally sparked my interest, and on top of that, he was hardly a fan of disciplinary action.

But he had won my eternal adoration a few months into the term when, after he had seen me playing _Mythomagic_ against a girl from the class above, asked me about them, which had developed into one of the most pleasant conversations I had ever had with a teacher. I had a feeling most of the staff disliked him, particularly the ex-military ones, which made him even more likeable.

As I was walking towards the door, he briefly stopped me.

‘I read your essay from last week, Mr di Angelo. The language is a little, how do I say, _colourful_ , and I’m afraid your dyslexia got in the way, but overall, very good. I was going to send it to Ms Gottschalk, if you don’t mind? You know she has a fable for the Napoleon wars.’

I blushed and nodded. While I’d been told that my dyslexia wasn’t as bad as it was for some other people, it still regularly ruined my grades, and Mr Grimes was the only teacher who had early on announced he would judge homework by content only and, as per his own words, ‘leave the nitpicking to your English teacher’.

‘Wonderful! I shall not detain you any longer then, young man. Off to join your class! I will be looking forward to reading your essay next week.’

A few minutes later, I arrived at the cafeteria for lunch. Across the room, I already spotted Bianca, who had reserved the seat next to her for me by blocking it with her bag. I took a tablet, plate and cutlery from the rack and queued for food at one of the two lines. Judging by the smell, today’s meal was enchiladas, and my mouth watered in anticipation. I had tasted it for the first time a few months ago and had been absolutely blown away.

‘Uhh, please, could I have some more, Mrs Tyler?’

See, the thing is, you don’t argue with the kitchen staff. They won’t let you have more, or a second serving, or extra this and that. It had something to do with this place’s obsession with discipline, I think. You learned that during your first week, and nobody was daft enough to try a second time. But here somebody was, trying just that. I rolled my eyes and wished I’d picked the other queue.

‘Mr Underwood, for the last time, you know the rules. Now if you don’t move along and stop delaying the queue, I will have you removed from this room, did I make myself clear?’

A lovely woman this Mrs Tyler was. Sometimes, I liked to imagine that she was a fury, and me some hero sent to slay the monster and liberate the school from her reign of terror and famine. Further ahead, I could see the student in question—and sure enough, it was Grover Underwood—hang his head and trot towards an empty table with his pitifully small serving. Shortly after, it was my turn to have some enchiladas and _mole_ sauce placed on my plate, and I wandered over to where Bianca was sitting. She caught sight of me and moved to free up the seat next to her.

‘ _Ciao, sorellona_ ’, I greeted as I slid onto the chair. She put down her fork to turn around and wrap her arms around me, and for a moment, I couldn’t care less about the people around us and allowed myself to just sink into her embrace and rest my head on her shoulder.

After eventually untangling myself from our hug, I began to eat. Between chewing, we began telling each other about our day, our arms and shoulders occasionally brushing against each other. She started talking about her lessons and soon enough, my head was spinning with complicated things I couldn’t understand. If that was what growing up entailed, then I would have preferred to be twelve forever.

It was entirely coincidental that, as I was scraping the last bits of the _mole_ from the plate, I happened to look towards where Grover Underwood was sitting.

His enchiladas was gone already, and the boy himself had disappeared towards the dessert buffet, but his bag and things were still there, and just for a moment, I thought I’d seen reed pipes and what looked like a bunch of chewed up tin cans. I blinked, my vision blurred, and the next time I looked, it was just a notebook and a granola bar.

I turned back towards my food and did my best to ignore my sister’s concerned look. I kept staring at my plate, as if to clean it with the power of my mind, until maybe a minute later, the bell finally delivered me from the awkwardness and I hugged Bianca goodbye and hurried towards my PE class. I looked back over my shoulder and saw Grover chuck something in the trash—my mind, unhelpful as ever, supplied an image of can lids—before he staggered towards the exit, and I swear our eyes met across the room before he hastily changed course and went for the door on the opposite side of the room.

Told you. What a weirdo.


	2. My Maths Teacher Has a Disturbing Preference for Warfare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting a little ahead of myself posting this, but I have around 1.8k words of chapter 3 written already, so I figured it'd be fine to put this one online already.

> _He was tall, with a hawkish face. His nostrils flared when he spoke, which made it really hard not to stare up his nose, and his eyes were two different colours—one brown, one blue—like an alley cat’s._
> 
> _—Percy Jackson and the Titan's Curse_

‘Attention class!’

Twenty-seven students fell silent. Twenty-seven textbooks were opened and twenty-seven pens got ready to take notes as everybody waited for the teacher to continue speaking.

Dr Thorn was a very unpleasant teacher. He had been assigned our Maths and homeroom teacher about a month or two after the start of the term, when his predecessor, a woman named Mrs Scotts, had surprisingly fallen ill and died shortly after. During the brief time I had known her, I had liked her well enough, something that couldn’t be said about Thorn.

Despite being detested by half the student body, despised for his draconian punishments by some, ridiculed for his accent by others, the man had the unique ability to shut up an entire class immediately. There was a certain look about him, something _hungry_ , that made anyone who faced him reconsider whether it wasn’t the more prudent choice to obey and swallow down whatever remark they had been about to say instead of standing up to him.

‘Who can tell me what we talked about during our last lesson? Well?’

The class remained silent. One single hand was raised in the air.

‘I sure would have hoped that _some_ of you paid attention’, Thorn snarled. ‘Mr Anderson, go ahead and inform these slackers of our curriculum.’

The boy in question—the one who had raised his hand—grinned smugly before summarising the contents of the previous lesson. In all fairness, I’d had a vague idea of what we had talked about, but hadn’t dared to speak up. Nobody wanted to be wrong in front of Thorn’s eyes. Better stay quiet than endure his mockery.

‘Very well’, bellowed the man. ‘Excellent, Mr Anderson, as always. Now, as for the rest of you, I’m sure you all took notes during Mr Anderson’s explanation. Open your books on page 87 and complete the exercises one through nine using any of the methods we discussed last week. _Alone_.’

The groans that nobody dared to utter but the absence of which everyone could hear were deafeningly loud.

I opened the book and quickly scanned the page. Absolutely no way I was going to be able to solve these, at least not without help. I squinted, trying to focus, but the numbers danced up and down in front of my eyes. A few variables were named with Greek letters—more advanced Maths than we were supposed to learn, but what did Dr Thorn care—and those, ironically, remained in place and readable.

Eventually, I pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen and began by writing the date in the top right corner. A queasy feeling overcame me as I scrawled in the year. It wasn’t the first time, but I still couldn’t figure out what was wrong. It was as if I felt like I was missing something obvious. The first few times, I’d asked someone for the date, just to ensure I had the days right.

‘Ms Vangeline, the next time I see you passing notes to Mr Hendrings, you can explain yourself to the principal, is that clear?’

‘Yes, Dr Thorn.’

‘“Dr Thorn, _sir_ ”, Ms Vangeline. I will see you in my office after class, understood?’

‘Yes, Dr Thorn, sir.’

I grimaced at my textbook. The poor girl didn’t deserve it. Thorn was known to be most creative with his punishments. Just the week before, he had let someone work cleaning duties in the teachers’ dorms for daring to enter his classroom with dirty boots.

By the time the lesson was over, I had just barely managed to decipher the instructions of exercise no. 3, and even before the teacher opened his mouth, I knew he would assign the remaining exercises for homework, on top of the actual assignment. I was immediately proven right, and this time, the groans of frustration were audible, here and there. Equally unsurprisingly, stick-up-his-ass Anderson was exempt from any and all homework. I stuffed my papers into my bag and hurried to get out of the classroom, when—

‘Mr di Angelo! A word with me!’

I turned on my heel and found myself alone with Dr Thorn. The last student left the classroom, and without Thorn’s or my doing, the door fell shut.

‘You didn’t complete the exercises, Mr di Angelo.’

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

‘No, sir.’

‘Do you have trouble with the subject, di Angelo?’

I shook my head. Of course I did have, but the last thing I needed was being assigned a tutor or the likes. I could manage well enough with Bianca helping me on the weekends.

‘No, sir.’

‘Then what, exactly, is your problem?’

It seemed to me like he had gotten bigger. His eyes, which were of different colours, bore into me like daggers.

‘Nothing, sir. Just a bit slow, sir.’

He seemed unsatisfied. He had to be aware of my dyslexia—it was in my file, after all—but apparently, he couldn’t bother to care. Or maybe he didn’t think it was an issue.

‘What about your parents?’ he suddenly asked.

‘I—I’m sorry, sir? I don’t understand. Sir.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Your parents, boy!’ He acted like I was an idiot for not understanding right away. ‘Who are they? What do they do for a living?’

The sudden change of topic confused me, and I stammered for a moment before answering.

‘Dead. Erm, I mean, they died. My sister and I are orphans, sir.’

He just stared at me, in an unsettling way as if hoping to reveal a flaw or inconsistency in my answer, so I added, ‘the family lawyer enrolled us here, sir.’

He grunted. ‘Whatever. Dismissed, di Angelo.’

I was still trying to make sense of his odd behaviour the whole time on my way back to the dorms.

Δ

Over the next few weeks, I regularly found myself glancing at Dr Thorn throughout lessons. He acted like usual, dishing out detention left, right, and centre to anyone who looked at him funny, but more often than not, I found him doing the same. Unlike Grover Underwood, he didn’t avert his eyes when I caught him staring at me.

Eventually, I stopped trying to out-stare him. My curiosity was strong, but my desire to avoid a second heart-to-heart with him was stronger. Whatever it was he was trying to find out, I didn’t want to be the solution to his riddles.

We had begun to study area and circumference of geometric shapes. Currently, Thorn was walking around, gathering our homework. He passed by me and I handed in mine—the result of half a Saturday with Bianca explaining the topic to me—and I swear I could feel his eyes staring at me, like spears drilling into the back of my head.

He returned to the front of the room and locked the papers into his desk before turning around.

‘Exercise’, he barked. ‘A room be represented by a square with the sides a of the length 10 feet and b of the length 25 feet. Two dozen crates of ammunition are to be stored inside. Each of them has a length of 5 feet. How wide can they be at most to still fit in the room?’

I scribbled down everything, and in between taking notes as he dictated the next few exercises, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at his words. Of course, Westover being a military school and all, it was understandable, but I found the way he crammed as much army stuff into the instruction as possible ridiculous nevertheless.

‘Di Angelo! Are you deaf or what?’

I realised that Dr Thorn was looking right at me, obviously talking to me.

‘I’m sorry, sir. No, sir.’

‘To the blackboard, Mr di Angelo, if it’s not too much effort.’

Sarcasm dripped from his words.

‘Now, Mr di Angelo here will be so kind to draw a sketch for exercise no. 2 for us.’

I picked up my worksheet and slowly walked to the front. I nervously glanced at the paper and, with shaking hands, tried to replicate the image shown next to the instructions on the board. The chalk screeched on the board, and I winced.

‘Almighty Kr—good Lord, di Angelo, what is that supposed to be?’ For a moment, I thought I’d seen Dr Thorn flinch and stumble over his own words, but surely, I had to be imagining things.

‘Uhm… the diagram, sir?’

He made a dismissive sound in his throat and wiped the board clean, his hand with the sponge passing inches from my face.

‘Again! But less sloppy this time, Mr di Angelo.’

Frustrated, I started over, this time trying to draw the lines a little less wobbly. Eventually, I stepped back, somewhat certain that this had to be good enough to satisfy even Dr Thorn’s expectations. He grunted and motioned for me to return to my seat.

The next lesson two days later was no less hilarious, but slightly less boring. We entered the classroom to find an enormous javelin leaning against the wall, next to the teacher’s desk. Chatter erupted among the class, before the man ushered us towards the tables and, as usual, had someone recite the previous lesson’s topics, before beginning the current one.

‘This’, Thorn said, ‘is a javelin.’

That much had been obvious. He had probably borrowed it from the gym—I knew that during the summer, spear throwing was part of the annual athletics competitions—and the weapon was, I had to give him that, quite impressive. It was about six feet long, the tip protected with a piece of rubber to avoid injuries outside of competitions, and a neat, ancient-looking pattern was drawn around the shaft, making it look like straight out of the hands of a Roman warrior.

Later, I wouldn’t even remember why I said it, or how I had known. I was just watching, not paying attention to any word Thorn said, and without even consciously thinking, I felt that something was off, and my mouth acted on its own.

‘You’re holding it wrong’, I said.

‘…circumference of 1.75 inc—excuse me, Mr di Angelo?’

‘Uh, nothing, sir’, I stuttered.

‘He said you’re holding it the wrong way, Dr Thorn, sir’, one of the people in the row behind me piped up, and I died a little inside. No way the man was going to let this go unpunished.

‘I see’, Thorn growled, and believe me, he looked a dozen times more terrifying with that weapon in his hand. ‘And you would know that because you are the definitive expert on throwing weapons, di Angelo?’

I could hardly tell him the truth—that I’d just _known_ , without why or how, that he wasn’t doing it right—so an excuse was needed.

‘Uh, err, I mean’, I stammered, ‘it’s because, uhm… I play this game’, I felt around in my pocket and thank god, found a figurine, ‘it’s called _Mythomagic_ , sir, and it’s all about mythology…’

It was the worst excuse I could have come up with, but apparently, Thorn bought it. His multi-coloured eyes seemed to scan me, and then he put down the spear and pointed towards the door.

‘The principal’s office, di Angelo. Wait there.’

I slowly stood up and gathered my things before leaving the classroom. A few people sniggered as I walked past them, and I could feel the anger rise up in me. Almost, I imagined, the room was getting colder as I clenched my fists in the pockets of my pants. Thorn paid me no mind, as I shut the door behind me, he had already continued his teaching.

‘…as I said, 1.75 inches. Now, if you wanted to wrap this, how would you calculate the required…’

I turned a corner, and almost bumped into someone.

‘Excuse me’, I asked, realising only now that I didn’t know the way, ‘where is the principal’s office?’

When an hour later, after having me write a humiliating letter of apology for ‘undermining his authority’, Thorn sent me to the kitchen staff to serve detention by cleaning the dishes, I still hadn’t figured out where this sudden desire to correct his handling of the javelin had originated from.


	3. I Have a Good Cry Behind the Gym

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has content warnings for **homophobia, xenophobia, bullying, panic attacks and strong language**.

‘…and you see, he has only 1,000 attack points, but if you play him on defence, you can use the special fire powers, so that gives you an extra 50 health and 500 defence power.’

I was sitting next to the football pitch, perched up on the maybe chest-high wall that surrounded it. Opposite me sat some younger student by the name of Leon and listened as I explained the rules of _Mythomagic_ to him, fascination written on his face. It was a Saturday afternoon and I was in my element.

‘And _this_ here is Hades, I don’t have the figurine, sadly, but he has 4,000 attack and 5,000 if the opponent attacks first.

I put the Hephaestus card aside and reached for the next one when a voice from behind us had me frozen, hand in the air halfway to the stack of cards.

‘Still playing with those tin soldiers of yours, Mario?’

I clenched my fist. ‘They’re not _tin soldiers_ , Anthony. And my name is Nico.’

The older boy strolled closer. ‘Whatever you say, kiddo. Do they all love children’s toys so much in _Ital_ _ia_?’ He did the worst possible fake Italian accent, as if his mockery hadn’t been clear enough already.

‘Go away.’

He turned to the boy next to me. ‘Why you spending time with this loser?’ His nasty grin widened. ‘Have we caught ourself a little boyfriend here, di Angelo? Does he want your _spaghetti_ in his _penne_ , is that it, you little f—?’

My face burnt up, even though oddly enough, the breeze seemed to have picked up and the air had gotten more chilling than was appropriate for an October afternoon. Anthony faked a laugh about his own joke, visibly pleased with the way it riled me up.

‘Look at that, di Angelo is a homo’, he continued.

‘Am not’, I forced out, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to overwhelm me. Next to us, Leon silently slid off the wall and hurried away, towards the school.

The air was decidedly too cold now, and I thought I’d felt the distant vibration of an earthquake. I hurried to put my cards and figurines into my pockets as the wind picked up and almost dropped the Ares figurine.

Anthony frowned and pulled his coat closer, now visibly shivering as the air grew cold enough for his breath to condense.

‘Whatever. Why don’t you just fuck off and go back to mafia country, you little freak.’ He showed an ugly grin. ‘Don’t even speak our language properly, do you, _amigo_?’

I was too shaken up to point out that ‘amigo’ was not even Italian. I couldn’t even muster a glare as I jumped off the wall and ran away, his laughter haunting me as I turned the corner of the building. I bit my tongue until he was out of sight before I finally allowed myself to cry, when I was short of breath and leaning against the wall of the PE building.

And cry I did. I was grateful for the first few drops of rain hitting me, disguising the tears that freely ran down my face and left a bitter, salty taste on my lips before being washed away. The temperature must have dropped well below 50° and within minutes, I was soaking wet, but oddly enough, the cold didn’t even bother me.

Eventually, I dragged myself towards the back wall of the gym. There was a side entrance, for the teachers, with a little roof above the door. I dropped to the floor, more or less curled up, and sobbed.

It had been just words. But as I lay there, they kept repeating over and over in my head. I knew he was wrong, that I wasn’t all the words he’d called me, but I was terrified that he might tell someone. Even if he was wrong, someone might believe him.

I didn’t even let myself think that he might have been right, but if I had, it would have been even worse. Unimaginable.

I don’t know how long it was that I was there. My fingers were freezing and my clothes were soaked, but I barely noticed, clenching my jaw in a desperate attempt to silence the whimpers that shook me. Still, the despair wrangled its way out of me, and if my vision hadn’t been blurry with tears, I could have seen the plants around me wilt and die, one by one. Only slowly I regained control of my breathing and fumbled around in my pockets for any trace of a dry tissue. I came up empty and eventually wiped away the tears and snot with my sleeves.

The tears and the rain had both subsided long ago by the time I heard footsteps and voices approach. I tried to breathe as quietly as possible—technically, I was supposed to be in any of the recreational areas, certainly not here—and, after carefully listening, could make out the voices of Ms Michaud, the school secretary, and Mr Grimes.

I slid up against the gym back door, hoping the melt into the shadows like a ninja, or maybe one of the people from the movies. Being caught on the PE grounds outside lessons would be bad enough, but even more so, I didn’t want to have to see the look of disappointment on Grimes’ face if I would get caught. He had a way of doubling your confidence and making you try your best, knowing he’d be proud of you, like a father would be when you’d bring home good grades.

I knew it was merely wishful thinking, but I felt as if maybe the shadows did grow thicker and darker. I did my best to suspend my breathing and prayed to whatever deity was willing to listen that I would go undiscovered.

‘Yes, of course, I’ll talk to Mrs Libby, she’ll get the forms ready for you. What did you say was the name?’

That was the secretary. Mrs Libby was the principal, but I had not seen her in person since my and Bia’s first day at Westover.

‘Webbs, Martin Webbs.’ And that was Mr Grimes speaking. ‘A really bright young man, if I have ever had any one student deserving of a scholarship, it’s that one, and I’m sure Theresa’s letter of recommendation could help him tremendously.’

A brief pause.

‘I’ll see to it. But, Edward, if I may ask, why did you come to me with this? I understand these things usually go through Severin Thorn.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Grimes voice took on a more quiet, almost conspirational tone. ‘It’s… it’s nothing. Really, it’s by all means petty. I just… I had the feeling that our dear colleague Thorn harbours some, how would I put it, some _dislike_ of me. You see, I didn’t want to compromise poor Webbs’ chances on the scholarship just because yours truly has fallen from grace with Severin.’

‘Yes, of course.’ I couldn’t see the secretary’s reaction. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take the matter to Mrs Libby’s office on Monday.’

‘Thank you very much indeed, Michelle.’

‘Oh, don’t mention it, Ed. But should we go back inside? It’s gotten a little chill.’

I dared breathe out a sigh of relief. And sucked it right back in the very next moment, when Mr Grimes said ‘why don’t you go ahead? I must have forgotten my notebook in the gym yesterday, I was on the way here when I happened to bump into you.’

So much for going undiscovered. I glanced around for any means of escape, but towards my right, a fence barred the way and to my left, around the corner, the two were still talking.

‘…you on Monday then’, Ms Michaud was just saying. ‘Good afternoon, Edward.’

‘Likewise, Michelle.’

Her steps became distant and I heard clothes rustling and then the telltale sound of a lighter as Mr Grimes pulled out and lit a cigarette. Then the footsteps came closer, and—

‘Oh?’

—he turned around the corner. I was so screwed.

‘Would you mind sharing what you are doing here, Mr di Angelo?’

I looked down at my shoes. Anywhere but his face.

‘Nothing, sir.’

He sighed and I risked a quick glance, scared of the betrayed or disappointed look I might find there.

‘Mr di Angelo, I—good Lord, what happened?’

‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’

‘Oh, don’t try that on me, son. Have you been crying?’

I swallowed and already felt the familiar sting of more tears in my eyes. I blinked and wiped them away.

‘No, sir.’

He stared, unimpressed, and something prompted me to amend my words to a ‘maybe?’

He nodded and sighed again. ‘How about we get you inside’, he gestured towards where the school towered, beyond the gym, ‘and you tell me what happened to you?’

‘Your notebook, sir.’

I felt dumb right after saying it. See, you don’t go around telling teachers that you listened in on their conversation. Even if to remind them they’ve forgotten what they’ve come for. But fortunately for me, Mr Grimes didn’t seem to mind.

‘Ah, right.’ He inhaled a last breath of the cigarette and threw it down and crushed it under his heel. ‘If you would let me in then?’

I realised I had been blocking the door and stepped aside. He fumbled with his keys and unlocked the door, stepped inside, and motioned for me to follow. The usual mix of sweat and dust welcomed us and I fell in step next to him as he strode towards the equipment room.

‘I didn’t know you smoked’, I said, desperate to fill the awkward silence. My words echoed from the walls. ‘Sir’, I added. He smiled, somewhat embarrassed.

‘Ah, everybody needs to wallow in vice, occasionally, I guess.’

‘Not regularly, of course’, he assured me, ‘but the odd smoke every now and then… my doctor said it’s never too late to stop, so I guess I needn’t hurry.’

He threw his coat over a high bar and disappeared between a box of rugby balls and a stack of mats.

‘Now, if you don’t mind, what, ahem, seems to be the matter that troubles you?’

I briefly considered making up some excuse. But then again, what did it matter? He seemed to genuinely care.

‘I, uh, was over by the pitch’, I began, voice cracking as the scene I had tried to forget played again in front of my eyes.

‘And was someone else there?’

‘L—’ I began and cut myself off. ‘Yeah, there was.’

I swallowed and tried to keep the tears from returning.

‘We were just talking and then A—then another person came and’, I swallowed, ‘they—they made fun of me.’

He poked his head out between two cabinets. ‘There wouldn’t happen to be a pointer stick or something similar over there?’

‘ _Scusi_ what?’

He smiled apologetically. ‘Well, I found my notebook, but I need something to get it out from under this shelf here.’

‘Oh.’ I looked around and found a tennis racquet, which I handed him. He disappeared back between the gymnastic apparatuses and, at last, returned with a little book. He picked up his coat and slid the notebook into his pocket.

‘Now, please continue.’

‘Uhm, he—they—I mean, he mocked me. Because of’, I nervously fiddled with my hands, ‘because of my game.’

He frowned. ‘Ah, I remember. The, what was it, _Myths and Magic_?’

‘ _Mythomagic_ ’, I corrected him. ‘Yeah.’

I didn’t mention the other, unspeakable things that had been said, but I wasn’t lucky, or maybe my face gave me away.

‘And was that all, Mr di Angelo?’

I nodded, hardly convincing, but I couldn’t talk about it. Not _this_. I barely even wanted to think about it, let alone speak it out loud. Thankfully, Grimes didn’t prod.

‘I should’ve fought’, I whispered, more to myself than to him. ‘I—I should’ve said something, not run away.’

We left the gym and he locked it behind us. The gravel crunched beneath our feet as we headed back towards the school. I felt a single tear leave my eye and quickly wiped it away. Shortly before we reached the building, Mr Grimes coughed.

‘I don’t think it’s quite my place to give you advice, Mr di Angelo, but if it’s any consolation to you’, he seemed to search for words, ‘fighting isn’t always the answer. Sometimes, oftentimes, letting things go is the better solution. The virtues of a gentleman, or so they say: strong in times of need, considerate when appropriate, stoic when suffering.’

He hesitated before adding ‘and occasionally, running away is the wisest choice one can make. Now, of course I don’t want to imply that you did run away, but there is nothing, ahem, inherently dishonourable about running.’

I frowned, more confused than comforted by his words, but nodded nevertheless.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Don’t mention it. Now, run along, Mr di Angelo. Enjoy your weekend, and I’ll see you in class.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long wait, oopsie. On the bright side, I finally done did it. Posting now already even though I haven't done chapter 4 yet so the wait won't be any longer.


	4. We Are Kidnapped From the School Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Memo to self: stop promising update schedules. It never, ever works out. Anygays, here is chapter 4! The school ball, finally the actual Titan's Curse plot happens!

‘Now, as you all know, today’s classes will be cut short due to the school dance. I’ve been asked to remind all of you that attendance is mandatory.’

The class seemed to be evenly split between those excited for the evening and those dreading it. Here and there, complaints were heard. I kept quiet, but silently agreed. At age twelve, girls were still new and uncharted territory to me, and spending the evening at the sidelines with Bianca didn’t sound all that tempting.

My thoughts kept wandering throughout the day, away from History, Maths and Geography, towards more interesting topics. Who cared about Napoleon or some other great conqueror if you could think about monsters, armies, and epic battles between sword-wielding heroes?

A while ago, I had discovered a book about the Trojan war in the library, and it had quickly become my favourite read in my quest to know as much as I could about the likes of Hector, Achilles and Paris. The letters kept tumbling around and about, but the illustrations more than made up for it, muscular swordsmen with grim faces but kind eyes, gods and goddesses clothed to the best of ancient fashion, and much more.

‘Mr di Angelo, if you would kindly pay attention? I’m not sure if you’re aware, but you’re not here for your personal entertainment.’

I bit back on a groan and tried to seem somewhat awake and interested. Unsuccessfully.

It was going to be a long day.

Still, the afternoon came and passed, and sooner than I would have liked, the evening arrived. By 5pm, I stood in front of my closet and tried to pick my outfit for the evening. I had already decided on a pirate-themed shirt, all blue, but while I was still trying to choose pants to go with it, I changed my mind and instead went with a darker choice, a black shirt with some sort of monster skull drawn on it.

‘Di Angelo!’ one of the other boys yelled from the common room. ‘Hurry up, I’m not gonna be late because of you!’

I rolled my eyes and picked a random pair of jeans. The colours clashed, but I didn’t exactly expect anyone to care. When I hurried out of the bedroom, the other three boys I shared the dorm with were already dressed and ready. Thompson—he was the oldest one and thus had the questionable honour of having been appointed group leader of our room at the start of the term—checked off my name on his clipboard and had us form a column to head for the gym.

I guess every school needs people who are into the whole discipline thing. Or maybe it is a military academy phenomenon. Either way, guys like him seemed to have been born to push others around. As we walked down the hallways, the space became more and more crowded as groups from the other dorm rooms joined in and headed the same way.

The gymnasium was already full when we reached the end of the short queue leading up to it. Outside the door stood Dr Thorn, overseeing the students pour into the room. We reached the entrance, and Thompson handed in his clipboard.

‘Room 134-C, sir. Everyone in attendance, sir.’

Thorn skimmed over the list.

‘Thompson, Avery?’

‘Present.’

‘Johnson, Benedict Martin?’

‘Present.’

‘Hayley, John?’

‘Present.’

‘Di Angelo, Niccolo Maria?’

I grimaced at the mention of my full name and pretended not to hear the sniggering directed at my middle name.

‘Present.’

Thorn signed something on a form of his and opened the door for us. I imagined I could still feel Thorn’s two-coloured eyes staring at me and burning holes into my skull from behind. Once inside, we were no longer bound to remain a group, and soon enough, the rest of the boys had disappeared to meet with their friends while I searched the room for Bianca. Everywhere around me, people where conversing, having a go at the buffet, the older students and the teachers drank punch, the younger soda.

I ducked under the arms of a group of girls headed for the salads and narrowly avoided getting hit in the face by a dancing couple. Someone bumped into me, mumbling an apology, and when I turned around to complain, I saw the receding backside of Grover Underwood. Even with the weird way he walked, he still was pretty fast, and out of sight almost right away.

Whatever. Weirdo.

I made my way further into the crowd, and let me tell you, trying to find someone in a crowded room is tough when you’re twelve and still a few inches short of five feet. More than once, I ran into people while looking another way hoping to catch sight of Bianca. With all the teachers and older students, I might as well have been looking for a small sapling in a whole forest.

Eventually, I spied a glimpse of a familiar green cap, and when I squeezed myself through a gap in the crowd, I could see Bianca leaning against the wall on the far side of the room, near the bleachers, staring at her feet. As the song changed, she briefly looked up and smiled when she saw me. I hurried past a few more people and sat down next to where she was standing.

‘ _Fratellino_ ’, she greeted and ruffled my hair. I reached up and briefly squeezed her hand. Even with the overly loud music and the crowd everywhere, spending the evening here seemed less awful with her nearby. Without the need for words, I scooted aside and she sat down next to me.

‘How was your day?’ Bianca asked. I rolled my eyes, because really, school was just about the last thing I wanted to think about, but answered nevertheless.

‘Mrs Baynes had us take a test in Geography, I think I did alright this time. Avery thought the capital of Spain was Portugal and you should’ve seen her face when he handed in his test, serves him right the little ass—’

‘Language!’ Bianca chided, with her usual motherly attitude.

For some reason or another, the thought of our mother felt odd, like there was something out of place, something on the tip of my tongue, but I dismissed it. She had died years ago, we had been told.

‘Are you even listening to me, Niccolo?’

My sister’s voice interrupted my daydreaming and I shrugged. ‘ _Scusi_.’

She frowned. ‘Nico, you need to work on this—on this zoning out of yours. I spoke to Ms Torres yesterday and she said if you wanted to, you could take up counselling with her. Maybe she can help you.’

I felt my body tense. ‘I don’t need help.’

Bianca sighed. ‘ _Sto solo cercando di aiutarvi._ You said yourself that you have trouble following sometimes.’

Anger overtook me, and I hissed at her instead of a response. Her face grew more stern, and I prepared for one of her usual lectures. What was the worst, I could never even stay angry at her for long.

‘I want you to consider it. You could go see her every Saturday, and she could talk to your teachers to let them know you’re trying to get better. Please think about it.’

Like I was going to give up half my weekend, for _counselling_ of all things.

‘I said I don’t need help’, I forced out between clenched teeth. ‘And I’m not going to—’

A shadow fell over us and we both looked up simultaneously. Over the loud music, I hadn’t heard the footsteps approaching, and yet…

‘Is there a problem?’ said Dr Thorn.

Bianca straightened her posture and took off her cap. ‘We’re fine, sir, thank you for asking.’

He made no move to leave, and instead directed his stare at me. ‘Mr di Angelo. Enjoying the ball?’

‘Sir. I guess so, sir.’

Something about the man’s awkward attempts at small talk set off every sense of danger in my body. Maybe it was just the unusually jovial attitude from him, but I couldn’t pinpoint what it was that was bothering me. Either way, Thorn seemed satisfied enough with my answer and glanced over his shoulder to nod at someone before returning his attention to us.

‘Ms di Angelo, about last week’s exam…’

I tuned out Thorn’s voice while he talked to Bianca and let my eyes roam over the gymnasium. Out of habit, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my deck of _Mythomagic_ , shuffled the cards to keep my hands busy. Over on the dance floor, Anderson had been ambushed by a few girls and bit back on a laugh at his miserable expression and lipstick-painted face. Further down the room, I spotted Underwood dancing with some alternative looking girl, visibly almost falling over his own feet.

Honestly, wherever I seemed to go, that guy was already there. I briefly imagined that maybe he was a government agent keeping an eye on us, like in that one movie Bianca and I had watched a few weeks ago, like, with a radio in his ear and sunglasses and all that.

‘Time’s up’, Thorn suddenly said. When I looked up, I found him glancing in the same direction as I just had. ‘Both of you, with me.’

Ok, you see, when an adult acts weird and demands you come with him, then you refuse and get help, right? But if the adult is your teacher?

‘Excuse me, sir, but is the school ball the right—’ Bianca tried to argue, but the vice principal wasn’t having any of it.

‘Now’, he growled, and before any of us could protest, he had grabbed us by the collar, like you would do with a kitten, and was dragging us towards the exit. I scrambled and tried to break free, but nobody in the room seemed to notice. We stumbled out of the gymnasium and through the corridors, past the chemistry classroom and the janitor’s office, and into the lobby, where he unceremoniously pushed us on the floor.

His eyes seemed to glow in the dark when he made a ‘keep silent’ gesture before hiding in the shadow under the main stairway. From where he had come from, footsteps were approaching, and I instinctively hid behind Bianca as we retreated towards the wall. The footsteps stopped, the doors opened, and a boy strode into the room.

He couldn’t be much older than me—13, maybe 14 years old. Although he didn’t look like a jock, he seemed in shape, a subtle kind of muscular. He was dressed casually enough, with an orange shirt and some jeans, and a necklace. His hair was just as black as mine, but his most striking feature were the eyes, of a vibrant green.

And then of course there was the sword in his hand.

If possible, I pressed myself harder against the wood panelling, trying to disappear behind Bianca. The boy’s sword—an unusual shape, out of place even among all the Civil War-era weapons on display in the school—seemed to glow faintly.

‘It’s okay.’

The first words out of the newcomer’s mouth.

‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

I glanced over to where Dr Thorn had disappeared to. I couldn’t see the man, but he had to be somewhere near the stairs.

‘My name’s Percy’, the boy continued. ‘I’m going to take you out of here, get you somewhere safe.’

I wondered how he could not have seen us get kidnapped by Thorn. I mean, how often do you see a teacher assault a student and just think ‘this is the right time to take a sword’? Maybe this Percy boy was mental. Sane people didn’t bring swords to a school ball. That had to be it.

Something moved in the shadows, Percy spun around, and, with a whoosh! like an arrow flying, was hit by something.

‘Yes, Perseus Jackson’, Thorn’s voice echoed off the walls. ‘I know who you are.’

 _Perseus_ , I remembered . _Greek hero, son of Zeus, distant relative of Hercules, slayer of Medusa. Part of the cancelled Mythomagic! Aegean expansion pack. 1500 attack power._

The vice principal emerged from his hiding place under the stairs and wiped some imaginary dust off his suit.

‘Thank you for coming out of the gym. I hate middle school dances.’


End file.
